


I've been Cold, I've been Merciless (but the blood on my hands scares me to death)

by I_See_The_Stars_15



Series: Secrets Kept Close, Feelings Pushed Away [5]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blood and Violence, Dark Past, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Graphic Description, One Shot, Original Character Death(s), Psychological Trauma, War, Whump, long title woops, wels-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24604324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_See_The_Stars_15/pseuds/I_See_The_Stars_15
Summary: Wels deals with the demons of his past.Or, knights aren't always chivalrous
Series: Secrets Kept Close, Feelings Pushed Away [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775941
Comments: 5
Kudos: 45





	I've been Cold, I've been Merciless (but the blood on my hands scares me to death)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from "I'll Be Good" by James Young
> 
> tw: graphic description of violence and death, do not read if sensitive to such topics.

He’s tired.

That’s all there is to it, really. He’s tired of the world, tired of himself, tired of it being the world against himself. He stood on his own podium, but he was still too far away from the others. He tried so hard to emulate their movements, to emulate their speed, but where they moved freely with the wind, he was carried away until he was too lost to find his way back. He tried to be like them, tried to act like them but it always left him so tired.

He was never meant to be like them. They were beings of improvement, of innovation and of change. They built monuments to the greatness of humanity, temples to showcase how far they’ve come along. He was always stuck in the ways of the past, a stone that only moves to hurt others or not move at all. When he builds temples, he offers them to _streets paved in blood and towers baptized in fire, glinting in the light of his blade._ When he showcases his work, he showcases _bodies piled on top of the other, jewels plucked from their ravaged corpses and wine harvested from their opened wounds._

He was never like them, he was never pure like they were. He was a fighter, but not the one who fought to survive. Their movements are those of men who had to learn to fight if only to live and see another day. His movements is that of a monster, who was brought up in war and whose instinct is to break. They choose to fight and rarely do they turn against their own, damage never permanent like his always has been. Their hands were meant to create and his hands were meant to destroy. He brought sorrow and agony and when he refused to bring it upon them, he brought it upon himself. He tore himself up from the inside, scratching his own heart so that the beast within him finds no need to tear into others. 

When he sleeps, he does not dare to dream. He dares not to close his eyes only to open them to ashes and ruins, to a kingdom that had commanded him to take and take and take even when he was too heavy with sin to take any more. He does all he can to ignore the screams and the curses, the terrified shrieks and the soft prayers to a god he wished had listened. He especially tries to ignore the quiet after, when the sun was rising to illuminate all the villagers fallen at his feet, wounds matching perfectly with the length and width of his sword. The quiet always unsettled him, always reminded him of the heavy weight of the sins he forced himself to swallow. It is why he always stays up to watch the sun rise, standing in heavy armor that always seemed to suffocate him, so he doesn’t forget. He doesn’t want to remember, but damn him if he forgets.

Damn him if he forgets the feeling of running a sword through the poor man’s neck, if he forgets the sound of the peasant’s dying breath against the maroon grass, if he forgets the mother’s bloodshot eyes holding her unmoving child or the father’s bloodstained mouth kissing her as they are cut down. He knows there is no crime greater than simply wiping away the blood on your hands and watching your sins wash down the drain. He was trained to remember the battles to remember glory, but now he remembers battle to remember the impossible penance he needs to accomplish.

He’s so tired of pretending to be good, of being looked at as good for the title he has in his name (it was never even his name, just another reminder of the past he dares not let go). He’s so tired of running after them just to run away from his past. He’s tired, tired, _tired_.

He just wants to rest without nightmares, but doesn’t know how he’ll do that without forgetting and damn it he doesn’t want to forget. He’s terrified to forget if forgetting means he’ll return back to that monster he was before. He was a monster before, who never paid much second thought to hacking away at townsfolk like they were weeds, who only felt guilt when he messed up his lord’s command. Knights like him were never good, were never meant to be seen as good. One was never supposed to see the silver armor and red feather and think of safety, of help. They were never supposed to see him and think of good, of friend.

He desperately wanted to be their friend, to have a family to protect instead of a lord to kill for. He wanted to believe that he can be a friend, that he doesn’t have to be scared but he is so scared and he is so tired of watching blood that is not his drip down from his hands. He is scared of waking up and seeing his reflection in murky waters of a river whose banks were lined with the dead. He is scared that he will hurt them, that he will be told to hurt them and he is scared of being the good knight that he always was and choosing to hurt them. He is so scared of not feeling anything for hurting them and being rewarded for hurting them just as he was always rewarded for hurting and maiming and killing.

He sits up in his bed, shaking and grasping at the covers if only to feel something other than cold metal and warm liquid in them. He looks out the window to see the sun already high in the sky, sees clouds passing by and all he can do is close his eyes and try to remember because he can’t forget, he doesn’t want to forget about what he’s done or else he’ll do them all again. He closes his eyes and hopes that he won’t forget.

He doesn’t go out anymore, doesn’t respond to his friends when they ask for him. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak, he doesn’t breathe. All he does is remember, remember and remember. He forces himself to remember the mountains of belongings he burned when their owners were already turned to ash, the children he saw looking at him in fear, and the teenagers looking at him in disdain raising the banner of rebellion. He forces himself to remember the child he took in, whose death he witnessed before him and forced him to see just what he did. He forces himself to remember and beg for forgiveness to people whose names were lost to the wind, whose voices exist only to taunt him and haunt him in his head. He forces himself to remember the past and forces himself to forget the others outside waiting for their friend.

He doesn’t know how long, he doesn’t know how much more he can take. He doesn’t know how much more quiet their world can be to leave him alone with his thoughts. It takes him months to realize just how quiet the world has become, and only when he silences the voices of the deceased in his head does he realize the truth.

He is alone. He is alone and he is tired and the loneliness makes him cry. The loneliness makes him cry and the tears lull him to sleep and for the first in a long time, he dares to dream.

He dreams of spiralling castles built with stone and wood. He dreams of the stomping of horses and the laughter of kids and the smiles of his friends reflected in his sword. He dreams of good things until the ground below him shatters, and blood starts running down the streets again. The smiles in his sword are replaced with cold stares, dead stares from both the living and not. He drops the sword and drops himself into a ball on the grass. The blades stab at him and all he can think about is how this was nothing compared to what he brought upon this land.

Footsteps and he looks up and sees a blurry, bloodstained face come into focus. He sobs and screams and curls into himself, away from the figure in front of him. The face shifts from one to another, from blond hair to brown hair to white, from blue eyes to green eyes to empty holes where eyes once were. They settle on a familiar face, on the face of a monster, the same face he sees in the mirror. He gasps out his name but it is lost to the quiet as everything else was.

“You were meant to obey.” His reflection murmurs, somehow heard across the deafening silence. There is fire behind him, and red-almost-black spots of blood drying on his armor piece. 

“They order you to repent.” He kneels to be closer to him, posture stiff and eyes hard. He had forgotten what it felt like to look in someone’s eyes and feel pain, but he won’t forget the shiver that runs down his spine as he stares at his doppleganger.

“Won’t you obey?”

He feels the dream fade away into nothingness, but does not dare open his eyes.

An order, he had been given an order that the monster inside seeks to obey. Repent they say, it is repentance they want from him. He repeats the words like a deadly mantra, whispering to himself in the dark. Repent, repent _repent, **repent**_.

When he opens his eyes it is still dark, but the sun starts peaking through his window. He sees the sun and remembers what he did, what he’s done, and what he needs to do.

He was given an order, and knights never refused an order. He grabs his sword and sets out to accomplish what he was told to do: repent, by any means necessary. He’s tired, but that won’t stop him.

The sun glares at him as it rises over the empty town and the empty husk of a warrior.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeesh, this must be my darkest fic to date. Sorry Wels.
> 
> As always, if you have any suggestions for songs, characters or topics for me to write about, don't hesitate to leave a comment below! I've enjoyed all the support I got from my other fics, and I'll continue to be grateful for you taking the time to read or kudos this fic!


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